


Diplomacy

by shouldbeover



Series: How Mycroft Holmes and Inspector Lestrade fell in love [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shouldbeover/pseuds/shouldbeover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has fallen in love with the straight Inspector Lestrade.  He hopes they can be friends, but also hopes that it might extend to something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Diplomacy

“You’ll need my brother Mycroft on this one. It could get messy and he can smooth the way. It’s his job,” Sherlock had said as he pulled on his gloves.

Sherlock had solved it but there were many who wished that he hadn’t, not when it led back to a royal, a lowly one, but still titled. And it was messy and depraved and could have really put a spanner in the upcoming Olympics. 

Greg was not looking forward to cleaning it up and so Sherlock’s, what? Offer? Suggestion? was unexpected.

“Um, thanks. How do I reach him?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll reach you.” Sherlock paused at the door, “He’s very clever, my brother.” He said this grudgingly. “You’ll like him. People do.” And with that enigmatic statement he swept out.

Greg knew that Sherlock had a brother. John had talked about him, about his drama (must run in the family), his importance in the government and the strained relationship between the brothers. Greg had seen him at a distance, standing by his car at the edge of crime scenes, but never spoken to him. He wasn’t sure what you said to a man like that. He was a bit frightened to have another Holmes involved with his work.

He didn’t have to wait long. The next morning he walked into his office to find a formally dressed man with an umbrella sitting in front of his desk. He could see the family resemblance, but Mycroft Holmes was nowhere near as handsome as his brother. Very few people were. He wasn’t bad looking, just not in Sherlock’s league. Greg remembered John mentioning the ongoing weight issues and the way Sherlock liked to torment his brother about them, yet the man in front of him was certainly not overweight. He wondered whether that had been irritating growing up. When had Sherlock come into his looks? Was their rivalry over intellect a way for Mycroft to get even for Sherlock’s flaunting? He realized that he was in his own head and staring. In order to establish some dominance in his own office he didn’t hold out his hand in greeting. 

“Mr. Holmes? Sherlock mentioned that you might come by.”

“Please, Mycroft. Let us not stand on formality. After all, we both deal with my brother; that rather makes us comrades-in-arms.”  He smiled a tight little smile that was just on this side of pleasant vs. condescending. Sherlock’s smiles always fell the other way.

“So, you have a little mess that many would rather have swept under the carpet, hmm?” Mycroft examined an imaginary piece of dirt on the tip of his umbrella before looking back up to stare, piercingly, into Greg’s eyes. “Unfortunately, and I do appreciate how galling this may be believe me, you must let my people take care of this one. I assure you that justice will be served, the appropriate people made to pay and future disturbances prevented.”

Greg rankled. He hated this, MI5 or MI6 or whoever, swooping in and taking over a case that he and his team had struggled over, with Sherlock’s help yes, but still. “Yes, but will due process be served? Last time I checked, we were a democracy and cautions had to be read, rights maintained.”

Mycroft tilted his head down slightly and gave another of those looks. They didn’t exactly look alike, but the cut-you-down-with-a-glance was the same. “We’re the government. Trust us. You really don’t have any choice.”

Greg scowled. 

Mycroft rose, straightened his waistcoat, buttoned his jacket and adjusted his umbrella’s position on the floor. He wasn’t much taller than Greg, but he tilted his head back so that he was effectively looking down his long nose at the DI. “For what it’s worth, Detective Inspector, I sympathize with your feelings. You must believe that the government, well, I at least, have the country’s best interests at heart.” He smiled again, politely. “I’m sure we will meet again. My brother does seem to draw people into the maelstrom around him.” He paused, and for a moment there was a very small vulnerability, and downward flick of the eyes that showed that whatever came out of his mouth next would be more truthful than he would like. Greg had seen it come over Sherlock on occasion. Whatever force had created the Holmes brothers, it had taught them to fortify their defenses well, but there was something more beneath their facades. It’s what kept him putting his cases in Sherlock’s hands time and again, a sense that there was someone, something better struggling to come out.

Mycroft continued, eyes still lowered to the carpet. “I would enjoy meeting you under better circumstances. You have a commendable career, which I have long admired.” The blue eyes came back up to meet Greg’s. “Plus, you tolerate my brother, no easy feat, and keep him out of trouble. You have helped him immensely. It has not gone unnoticed.

“Have a very pleasant day, Detective Inspector.” And he was gone. Not with the swirl of coat, but with a light swing of the umbrella.   
Damn the Holmes brothers and damn their affectations, their intelligence, and their meddling, and damn the fact that they were so damn interesting. Well, if he was lucky he’d probably never have to deal with Mycroft Holmes again.

Which was why he was very surprised when two days later a large man who was so clearly a bodyguard that he should have had ‘Security’ printed across the back of his well-cut suit, was shown into his office.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade? Mr. Mycroft sends his regards.” The muscle held out an envelope.

“Er, thanks?”

“I was told to wait for a response.”

“Oh.” He opened the envelope. Inside was a note on cream coloured heavy stock, handwritten in what Greg vaguely remembered was called Copperplate script.  


 _Dear Detective Inspector Lestrade,_

 _I hope that you will not think this too forward of me, but as I mentioned during our meeting, I would welcome the chance to get to know you better. It is difficult to find someone who is both outside of the intrigues of my work, and yet able to understand them because of his own career. I am free tomorrow for lunch between twelve and one. My associate is awaiting your response._

 _Mycroft Holmes_

  
Who the hell says that his associate is awaiting your response? Who sends handwritten notes in this day and age? Mycroft Holmes, apparently.

He made a show of checking his calendar and his phone to prove that Mr. Super-Important Holmes wasn’t the only one to have a busy schedule, but twelve to one _was_ when he usually took his lunch if at all possible, and there was nothing urgent on his desk for the day.

“Um, well, tell him that…” (How did you phrase something like this? How would a posh git do it?) “I am available at the moment, but I’m sure that he can…appreciate that with the demands of my job that can change in an instant. How will I reach him to cancel?”

“Of course, sir. Mr. Mycroft said to tell you that if you were amenable, he would be at your disposal. I will pick you up and if you are not available I will let Mr. Mycroft know.”

At my disposal? “Ok, well, tell him…thanks?” Great, he’d said thanks twice as a question. So much for the commanding Detective Inspector routine. Why did both Holmes brothers reduce him to a schoolboy half the time? He wouldn’t have thought that he had any sense of class deference, but here he was practically tugging on his forelock.

Nothing came up in the intervening hours and Greg was both relieved (who but Sherlock Holmes would wish for a murder?) and disappointed, like a kid wishing for an illness on the day of a test.

At exactly ten to twelve the muscle appeared at his door. “Sir, are you free?”

“Um, yes. Let me just get my coat.”

Riding in the back of a town car was not a new experience but it certainly wasn’t a common one. Oh, damn, why hadn’t he thought of this before? He should have made up a conflict. Mycroft was sure to have picked some posh git restaurant that Greg couldn’t afford and damned if he was going to let Mycroft pick up the tab. Greg Lestrade paid his own way. He’d just have to budget carefully over the next month or so.  
Once again he was surprised when the car pulled up in front of a small bistro. He’d eaten here before. The food was good and reasonably priced.

Mycroft was sitting at a small table at the back of the restaurant, smiling as serenely as ever.

“Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. I hope the restaurant meets with your approval. I believe that you have had the chance to eat here before? Is the menu good? Is there anything that you recommend?”

“You can call me Greg.”

“Pardon?”

“You can call me Greg, if you like. I mean if I’m to call you Mycroft. Only seems…fair.”

“Please, don’t worry about that. I will gladly address you any way that you wish. I simply prefer Mycroft as I don’t really have a title within the government. I occupy such a minor position.”

“Greg is fine. Greg is good.”

“Excellent. Now, to our meal.”

They ordered, Mycroft asking polite questions about what Greg had eaten before, then ultimately ordering a simple salad. Greg, in a kind of panic ordered a pasta off the top of his head when the waiter returned.

Again Greg was surprised as Mycroft was an excellent dining companion, conversant in a far wider range of subjects than Greg would have credited, offering gentle anecdotes which, while they sometimes involved famous people, were never condescending or show-offy. And he asked questions of Greg, never prying, but with what seemed to be a genuine interest. It was what he imagined being at lunch with Stephen Fry might be, if one were as equally interesting as Stephen Fry. In spite of himself he found he was enjoying the other man’s company immensely. Sherlock had been right. He did like Mycroft for Mycroft was very likeable.

Up until the moment when Mycroft said, “I hope I’ve dispelled your fears about establishing a friendship between us.”

Why, why, why did they have to do that, Sherlock and Mycroft, read your mind like your brain was transparent?

And then it was back, that tiny insecurity in the eyes, “Oh, dear, I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve made you uncomfortable when I’ve worked so hard to make you feel comfortable. They say a distinguished diplomat could hold his tongue in ten languages and I seem to have failed in my native one.”  His eyes flicked to the side, just like Sherlock. “The art of manners, as you know, is putting everyone else at their ease. I have been no better than Sherlock who prides himself on making people as uncomfortable as he can.”

Greg held up his hand for the bill, “Thank you for inviting me to lunch, Mr. Holmes, but I am not interested in being an experiment for another Holmes’ entertainment. I’m not sure why you decided that it would be fun to meet me at one of my favorite restaurants, talk to me about things that interest me that you must have researched, all in order to get me to ‘friend’ you. I don’t know why, I’m not you or Sherlock, and I don’t want to know, but I am not interested in whatever you’re planning. Just leave me out of it and go play whatever sick games you and your brother play with someone else.” He threw a pile of notes on the table, probably more than was needed but he didn’t care and was ready to stride purposefully out of the restaurant, when he felt Mycroft’s hand on his arm. 

“Please, Greg, let me explain myself.” It was said with what seemed to be such pure emotion that Greg did stop and reluctantly sat back down.

“This had better be good,” he said.

Mycroft looked off into the middle distance and was silent for so long that Greg was ready to just leave. If it took the man this long just to make up an excuse…

“Greg, I’ve been a diplomat too long. Will Durant, the American historian, says that ‘to say nothing, especially when speaking, is half the art of diplomacy.’ I collect quotes like that, to keep myself honest.

“And I have not been entirely honest with you.” During this speech Mycroft had kept his eyes resolutely away from Greg’s face. “The truth is that I have been observing you for some time and hoping for a chance to meet you. When this opportunity presented itself, I leapt at it. I could have had someone send you an email, but I chose to come in person.

“Yes, it started because I observe everyone who impacts my brother’s life, particularly in a positive way but…the truth is, Greg, and I’m sorry to say this so bluntly but when all is lost you have nothing to lose, as they say. The truth is that I find you attractive. In addition to being physically very handsome, I admire your presence, your control of situations and the way that you deal with your team. I also observ— rather, _imagined_ that you might be as lonely in the trials of your job as I often am in mine, and that might be a common ground on which to begin a friendship.

"Forgive me for wasting your time. I won’t disturb you again.”

“…you find me attractive?”

“Yes. Foolish isn’t it? I have always found myself hopelessly drawn to men who are as straight as Adam in the garden.”

“You find me attractive?” Greg repeated stupidly. “It’s just… This is going to take a little time for me to process. I don’t have a computer for a brain.”

He paused, running things through his brain that was more like a calculator than that Watson thing. It was damn flattering to have caught the interest of someone like Mycroft Holmes who must meet far more fascinating people every day. He wasn’t interested in _that_ , or he didn’t think so, hadn’t thought so. But finding out someone finds you attractive tends to make that person more attractive in your eyes. But he wasn’t like that. Was he? 

This wasn’t the first offer, although not in a long time. Did he give off a vibe? And Mycroft wasn’t bad looking and so damn interesting. That is if the whole ‘I like all the things you like’ hadn’t been a complete lie. And having someone to talk to about his day who, how had Mycroft put it, was outside of it, but could understand, could be nice. That problem was pretty much the reason that his marriage had ended. He and John were becoming pretty good friends, but John had Sherlock to contend with and let’s not kid ourselves, John’s loyalty was always going to lie with Sherlock.

“Ok, yes, I think I’d enjoy being friends with you. I think we do have things in common. Let’s just start with that, and see where it goes.”

Many years later when they were reminiscing fondly about that first lunch and how it had worked out so well, Greg mentioned how impressed he’d been with Mycroft being honest with him.

Mycroft smiled across the breakfast table, “You know, Greg, Daniele Vare said that ‘diplomacy is the art of letting someone have your way.”  


Which was when Greg threw the toast rack at Mycroft’s head.   


  

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Mystradefanfest at Live Journal


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